


Out of My Element

by LemonCakeDesign



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26331487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonCakeDesign/pseuds/LemonCakeDesign
Summary: Dreamer, dream againPut me into placeI’m out of my elementWaiting for the dayFalling for Guydelot happens slowly, and then all at once.
Relationships: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

The weather is horrible on the day Sanson meets Guydelot.

The rain falls in thick sheets in the Shroud, coating the lush greenery in refractive droplets. It’s just the wrong side of summer for it to be refreshing; bearing down on autumn, the rain has caught anyone who hasn’t prepared in a deep, bone-drenching cold.

Sanson prepares for every eventuality, but even he couldn’t predict a sudden summer rain. As he stands under the eave of the Quiver’s Hold, he wonders if it’d be worth delaying the meeting to dash home for an umbrella. He doesn’t think he’ll be out in the rain for too long today, though, and he’s worked too hard to set up this meeting to risk irritating anyone involved with being late.

The Warrior of Light dashes up, then, seemingly uncaring of the rain. Sanson shakes his hand and gets his first good look at the man.

Rivulets of water run down Pike’s face, tracing their way towards his open collar, and Sanson tears his eyes away, feeling heat spark across his skin. There’s a note of amusement in Pike’s voice as he responds to Sanson’s polite inquiries on his continued health, and Sanson feels his cheeks further aflame.

He’s got just the  _ tiniest _ crush on the Warrior of Light, alright? It’s not his fault that he’s always had a thing for heroes. He’d been spoiled by his first flame, an adventurer who’d joined with the Twin Adders during Garlemald’s assault on Eorzea five years prior. Al’dir had been kind and brave and beautiful, and that had been it for Sanson.

Al’dir had also shattered his heart when he eventually left the Adders, seeking adventure once more. “You deserve someone who will stay,” Al’dir had said, cupping his face gently. 

He hadn’t asked if Sanson wanted to join him, of course.

Pike’s tilting his head, and Sanson shakes himself out of his memories. “My apologies, my mind wandered. Did you ask me something?”

“Ah, just if I had kept you too long?” Pike repeats, no hint of displeasure in his voice. Sanson’s tiny crush might have gotten a bit bigger if he hadn’t added, “My fiance didn’t want me to leave, and he can be  _ very _ persuasive.”

“No, not at all!” Mentally, Sanson takes his crush to the back garden and spears it dead. “I am deeply sorry to have pulled you from your fiance’s side, Warrior of Light.”

“Oh, please do  _ not _ call me that,” Pike says, rolling his eyes. “Just Pike is fine, Captain, and no worries on that front. We’re used to being apart.”

“I must insist you call me Sanson, then,” Sanson says. “Let me fill you in on the details.”

The giddy feeling of drawing near to his dream is crushed handily under the disapproval of the God’s Quiver. He’d thought the song he’d found and the presence of Pike might have swayed them (proof of bloody concept that bards worked on the battlefield!), but they still gaze at him with disapproval.

Especially Grand Marshal Mourechaux, leader of the Gold Bulls. Sanson’s never been happier that he has no skill with the bow. He can barely stand the man when they meet like this; he can’t imagine what working  _ under _ him is like.

His opinion of the man is only further soured when he decides that Sanson and Pike must undertake a  _ test _ , to determine if they’re worthy of hunting down this song. The Warrior of Light,  _ unworthy _ ? Who does Mourechaux think he is?

When he kneels in the mud, soaked to the bone, treants closing in, Sanson realizes the test was probably for  _ him _ , and he’s failed. Utterly.

Pike descends on the monsters like an avenging angel, knocking arrows faster than Sanson thought possible. The crush comes back, and Sanson kills it again, with vengeance.

“Doing alright, Sanson?” Pike asks, helping him to his feet.

“Quite fine, though my pride may never recover,” Sanson says grimly. “Your competence can be well spoken for, though my own may not—”

His words are drowned out in the crashing of branches, too close, and he feels his heart in his throat as he turns. Another treant (too many, for this area, was Mourechaux trying to  _ kill him? _ ) lifts an arm to crash down on him. With no time for the both of them to dodge, Sanson pushes Pike out of the way, and watches the fist come crashing down at him with a numb sort of acceptance.

Three arrows land in the treant, and for a brief moment, Sanson feels relief, mixed with shame, at having been saved by Pike again. Then, he realizes that the arrows have come from the wrong direction, and he locks eyes with his savior.

The most beautiful Elezen man Sanson has ever seen lowers his bow with a confident smirk, and Sanson’s fucked. Crush number three of the day blooms, and dies as he gives Sanson an appraising look, seems dissatisfied, and turns to Pike.

It’s too much for Sanson’s battered pride, and shame gives way to anger. He turns on his heel and refuses to look at the man as he trades words with Jehantel and Pike. Instead, Sanson goes over his moves, analyzing where he’d faltered, and setting a list of things to train himself on again  _ before _ setting out in search of the Ballad of Oblivion.

Then he registers the Elezen’s name and  _ well _ , he’s double fucked. 

“Ability, aye, but naught else,” Sanson says, finally turning around. “ I know about you, Guydelot the Spent.” 

He watches Guydelot’s face twist at the nickname, an ugly little thing that someone had graced him with when he’d staggered back from the Carline Canopy to the barracks, hungover and disheveled. The expression nearly twitches at the buried shame in Sanson’s heart, but he pushes it down, continuing his tirade.

“Your reputation as a troublemaker precedes you. You treat authority with contempt, shirk duty at every turn, and make a general nuisance of yourself.” He realizes, with a shock, why exactly they’ve sent Guydelot. “That they sent the likes of you means that they  _ want _ me to fail! My hopes of finding the Ballad of Oblivion... All up in smoke…”

He feels strangely empty. He doesn’t know  _ what _ he’ll do without the goal he’s been working so hard on. He’d been so inspired when he’d first witnessed the bards that Jehantel had trained.

It had been a chance that he’d gone to Quiver’s Hold when the bards were first working on learning the fingering for Army’s Paeon. Some simple errand for his commanding officer had taken him there, to speak with Lewin. He still doesn’t know which bard was the one playing, just then, but the feeling the song had imbued in him had been so inspiring that he’d barely managed to finish the errand he’d been set before rushing off to draw up the plans for incorporating bards into their main units.

Sanson hadn’t felt like that since...since he’d first joined the Order of the Twin Adder, swearing his oaths and finally feeling like a part of something  _ greater _ .

Pike squeezes his shoulder comfortingly, and Sanson realizes he  _ can _ do this. It’ll take more planning, a bit more laid on the shoulders of the ever-enduring Warrior of Light, more long hours spent researching on his own...but he can do this. He  _ will _ do this, Twelve be damned, because Sanson Smyth is no quitter.

He barely pays attention to responding to Guydelot, saying something snappish to get him to back off as plans twist and swirl in his mind, and heads back to the Quiver’s Hold to make something of himself.

* * *

“We’ve one room left,” the barkeep at the Forgotten Knight says. “Take it or leave it.”

It’s one more room than Sanson’s found at any other inn in the city, so he hands over the money for the room. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, since Guydelot’s probably just going to go charm his way into the room of some beautiful person and leave Sanson all alone.

Sanson doesn’t delve into the deeper feelings on that one.

Instead, he asks the barkeep to let Guydelot know about the room if he asks, and heads out into the snow to take up Pike’s offer of a few hours of research at House Fortemps. He’s still  _ slightly  _ reeling from the fact that Pike is set to marry the son of a count, illegitimate though he may be, but the offer of what is likely to be a well-stocked library had swept any misgivings from his mind.

He meets Pike in front of the manor. Pike looks unbothered by the snow around him, even though he’s dressed so lightly. It makes Sanson fiercely jealous—even wrapped in his furs as he is, he’s still shivering with the bone-deep cold that plagues all of Coerthas. Pike leads him into the manor, though, which is warm and inviting, despite its imposing exterior, and he finds a mug of hot chocolate pressed into his hands by Pike’s fiance.

“Thank you, Lord Haurchefant,” he says, taking a sip. It’s rich and soothing, and Sanson has to work to keep himself from downing the entire mug in one go. “This is delicious.”

Haurchefant laughs. “Only the best for Pike’s friends!” He says cheerily.

Being called Pike’s friend warms him more than the drink ever could.

After he’s stopped shivering and the feeling has returned to his fingers, Sanson and Pike retire to the library. Pike’s pulled a lot of the relevant texts already, and they spend a few quiet hours taking notes on anything that could be deemed useful. It’s a lot of the same Sanson’s already found, but there’s enough details to give him some scant few ideas of a lead, so he considers the time well spent. 

Pike’s presence is soothing, after the irritation of travelling with Guydelot for the past few days. Sanson had given up on trying to be friendly with him after the first few hours and gone straight to remaining coolly civil, but it was hard to spend a lot of time in the company of someone who clearly thought you unworthy of his time. And though it had been a long time since Sanson was that young, eager recruit with too much to prove, there was still a part of him that wanted so desperately to be accepted, and it had been beaten down frequently in Guydelot’s presence. It was  _ exhausting _ .

He feels lighter when he returns to the Forgotten Knight and heads to his room. Sanson hums the tune to Army’s Paeon as he unlocks the door and steps into the room.

The tune dies in his throat as he catches an eyeful of Guydelot, shirtless, clearly in the process of readying for bed. Sanson squeaks, unbidden, and nearly dashes back out of the room before realizing that would be more embarrassing. Instead, cheeks flaming, he closes the door and heads over to his own belongings.

Guydelot doesn’t acknowledge him as he continues to undress, and while it would normally feel like further insult, Sanson is just thankful for the time to pull himself back together. Those  _ back muscles _ . Twelve. He sees why Guydelot never has an issue finding company at the inns they stop at. If it weren’t for his truly reprehensible personality, Sanson’d be jealous that he hadn’t had the opportunity to see just what the muscles could do.

The train of thought is too much, and Sanson goes into the washroom to splash water onto his face until he’s a normal person again. Guydelot is already in bed by the time Sanson returns and begins to pull his bedroll from his pack.

“What are you doing?”

It’s the first words that Guydelot has said in several days that hasn’t contained an insult or dripping derision, and after the quiet of the previous few minutes, it startles Sanson. He drops his bedroll. “Preparing to sleep?”

“Right. On the floor?”

“There’s only one bed in this room, if you hadn’t noticed.” Sanson rolls his eyes and picks his bedroll back up.

“It’s also colder than Menphina’s tits, and I can’t imagine the stone has much warmth,” Guydelot points out.

“Unless you can make another bed appear out of nowhere, it’s my best option,” Sanson replies. “I assure you, it can’t be worse than sleeping during the spring rainstorms in the Shroud.”

“The bed’s big enough to share.”

Sanson drops the bedroll again. “I’m sorry?”

Guydelot sits up, finally. “We can share the bed. You may be an asshole, but I’m not letting you freeze to death on the ground.”

“I...you’re sure?” Sanson feels strangely off-kilter. He honestly didn’t think Guydelot would  _ care _ where he slept. It seems far too kind and well off the mark of what Sanson has taken Guydelot to be.

“Just get in the damn bed, Sanson,” Guydelot says, laying back down.

Sanson gets in the damn bed.

He thinks he’s going to have a hard time sleeping, this close to Guydelot. He feels tense as he slips under the thick down comforter, but the warmth of it makes him realize just how cold it would have been sleeping on the floor. Guydelot’s own heat radiates across the bed, and the sound of his breathing is nearly musical in its rhythm. It lulls Sanson right to sleep, and he dreams of someone singing him a song, carding their hands through his hair.

There’s just one problem, Sanson realizes, as he wakes up in the cold dawn of morning. Guydelot’s a  _ cuddler _ .

Somewhere, in the night, Guydelot had been drawn to his side—seeking warmth, more like than not. And he’d trapped Sanson in place with an arm over his chest and a leg twisted between his, burying his nose into Sanson’s neck. It was almost endearing, especially adding in how innocent and sweet Guydelot looked as he slept, but it left Sanson with a dilemma.

Did he attempt to extricate himself from Guydelot’s grasp and save them both the embarrassment of waking like this? It ran the risk of waking Guydelot anyway. He could pretend to be asleep and let Guydelot quietly retreat, leaving it unspoken? But Guydelot could find some way to blame Sanson for that, and he didn’t want to further the animosity between them if he could help it.

_ You could cuddle him back _ , some small part of him whispers, and he discards it immediately. As nice as it sounds, that would  _ not _ have any good outcome, Sanson is sure.

He decides on the first course of action. He slides, carefully, slowly, out of Guydelot’s arms, and pulls the covers back over him. Guydelot gives a soft whimper as he pulls away, then rolls over, stealing the leftover heat from where Sanson had been sleeping. It’s...cute.

Sanson slaps his cheeks lightly, refocusing. He gets ready for the day and is out of the room before Guydelot even shows a sign of stirring.

* * *

Somehow, Sanson had expected the offer of a shared bed to be something of a peace offering. 

If anything, though, things get  _ worse _ . Everytime Guydelot speaks to him, he feels judged and found wanting. It grates on every nerve, leaving Sanson feeling raw.

He takes it out on others, he knows. The desire to prove himself makes him callous with Celaine, ignoring every obvious hint that there’s  _ something _ sensitive with the song she sings. He apologizes to her and keeps a tighter rein on the brewing storm of discomfort from then on, only turning the full force of his displeasure on Guydelot.

As much as it's a detriment, Guydelot's constant barbs drive him, too. Sanson practices harder and more often than before, some days until he can barely hold his lance, because he wants so desperately to find the thing that will make Guydelot look at him and say, _I see you. I respect you_. He researches with every free moment he has, finding more leads, and, on occasion, sketching out battle plans for the three of them. Guydelot had scoffed at the first few Sanson had presented to him, and it had only driven him to find ones that would make even Guydelot begrudgingly accept. The first time he does, Sanson rides the high for the next three days. The extra practice and research and planning leave him exhausted and with little time to sleep, though, creating a feedback loop into the constant irritation of Guydelot's words.

By the time they make it to Tailfeather, he’s a bomb on the edge of detonation. Sanson waits, impatient, scribbling notes into his journal and resisting the urge to record how insufferable Guydelot is. Even if Sylviel is unable to provide anything useful, he hopes to be able to record their findings, so that someone might make  _ anything _ of their efforts. He doesn’t want that good deed tainted by whatever toxic mess seethes between him and Guydelot.

It’s nice, when the sellsword comes to Tailfeather and sets them off to find Sylviel. He pours all the frustration and anger of the last few weeks into his strikes against the Gnath, and if he’s a mite more vicious than is necessary, only Pike seems to notice. It’s the best stress relief Sanson’s had since the dragons with Celaine, and he feels looser when they finally turn back to Tailfeather.

Not even the way Pike and Guydelot trade quiet words on their journey back can deflate his mood. And when Sylviel mentions Coerthan, it feels like he’s walking on air. Despite Guydelot, despite every set back, despite fiends and dragons and Gnath, Sanson  _ knows _ . He  _ knows _ they’re close. He can almost hear the notes of the Ballad, he swears.

“We've hit a dead end─I say we return to Gridania for now and look for other avenues,” Guydelot says, dismissive. 

The anger floods back in an instant. How dare he give up now, when Sanson’s closer than ever to finding this song—to finally,  _ finally _ , having something he can point to and say, “this proves everything I’ve known since I first heard a Bard’s song.” Doesn’t he know that Sanson’s doing this for his sake just as much as his own?

Despite how much of an ass Guydelot can be, Sanson knows he has potential. Pike had said he was the best bard he’d seen (save himself, of course), and Sanson couldn’t do anything but agree. His song had carried over to where he and Celaine were, during that battle, and Sanson had feared nothing in that moment. He could’ve faced down Bahamut himself and believed himself able to win.

But he knows that no one else sees this. Like no one else sees how much potential bards have. For all their strife, he and Guydelot are alike in all the ways that matter.

Sanson’s not a bard, though, and he doesn’t know how to use his words, doesn’t know how to stow his pride and put himself on the stage to have the deepest parts of his soul flayed open. He tries, when he says, “They wanted you out of the way,” to Guydelot, when he follows that with “And it isn't so different for me.” He tries to pour what he means into that, like strumming with purpose, but he hits the wrong notes and he sees it, when Guydelot storms off.

Pike places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know what you meant.”

Sanson just shakes his head. It wasn’t Pike he was trying to reach.

* * *

In the first few days after Guydelot leaves, Sanson tries to keep up hope.

Guydelot will come back, he’s certain. And Sanson can apologize. He practices in the mirror of his rented room, saying every kind thing he’s ever thought about Guydelot. 

“I think you’re  _ amazing _ ,” he says to a man who hates him, who isn’t even there to hear it.

Sanson starts to miss Guydelot’s little barbs. He misses Guydelot spinning a limerick and realizing it was an insult too late because he’d been so struck with how quickly the man could create something so beautiful. He misses the drive that had accompanied every lost repartee, finding himself lost and adrift, no passion to turning the pages of the books Sylviel sets him to research.

Above all else, he misses Guydelot.

Pike passes through again, with companions at his side. Sanson gives him a paltry update, and Pike nods knowingly. He promises to find whatever he can on his travels, to send word when he’s free from whatever business he’s on and figure out their next move.

Sanson’s ever present hope starts to dwindle, and he wonders if everyone was right about him. That he’d never amount to anything.

He can’t bear the thought for more than a few minutes, though. Because believing he was wrong to undertake this quest means believing that bards didn’t have the potential that he knew, deep in his soul. That the inspiration he’d felt when he’d heard Army’s Paeon played, in confident, precise strumming, was just a fluke. That Guydelot deserved less than his full faith.

By the time Pike returns again, a dark look in his eyes, Sanson  _ has _ given up all hope that Guydelot will return, though. He swears he’s caught glimpses of the man, once or twice, but the flashes of blue out of the corners of his eye never approach, and it may just as well be wishful thinking. For all he knows, Guydelot’s already back in Gridania, flirting with every beautiful person that passes his path.

His gut twists as he prepares to leave for the Churning Mists, not even the promise of a world above the clouds enough to lift his spirits. He has to send Pike to leave word of their departure, because he can’t bear to admit that they’re moving on from Guydelot.

Sanson puts on a good face for Pike, but the energy between them remains quiet and dark. Something  _ clearly _ happened in Ishgard, something that’s thrown ice over Pike’s normally friendly demeanor. He chances to ask about it, on their way up Sohm Al.

“My husband was killed.” Pike’s eyes are flinty. “We’re hunting down the bastards that did it, but...it’s taking time.”

“I’m sorry. He was a good person.”

Pike nods solemnly. Sanson starts to wonder if he might have renewed reason for hunting down a song called  _ The Ballad of Oblivion _ . Sanson wonders what reason he still has for finding it.

Regardless, they’re close to the end of their quest. The moogle, Mogta, is a poor replacement for Guydelot, and Sanson does his best to spend the two days waiting for Guydelot to  _ maybe _ show up avoiding him, scribbling his words of regard that Guydelot may never want to hear into his journal. 

He feels rather like a young maiden pining for her love who’s been sent off to war, wondering if he may return. But it’s not duty that keeps Guydelot from his side, just Sanson’s own words. And he’s certainly not in love with Guydelot. Despite the dreams he’s woken up from, with Guydelot whispering funny little remarks into his ear as his hands roam over Sanson’s body…

Mogta looks at Sanson oddly as he slaps himself in the face and rushes off to throw himself into a cold stream.

* * *

When Sanson had joined the Twin Adders, he had expected his life might be cut short.

He did all he could to prevent that eventuality. He trained daily with his lance, sought out those he knew were better than him for tips and an expert eye over where he might have left openings. He studied battle tactics and other weapons, learning a thousand thousand ways to parry and dodge swords and bullets and magic. Sanson was always prepared, after all, and that applied here.

But as much as he prepared, he couldn’t predict the battles that he didn’t know existed. And so, when a Siren tears itself free of the stone before him, Sanson thinks,  _ okay, this is it. Be cool about it _ .

He thinks he is, actually, as he yells for Pike and Mogta to run and let him deal with this. It’s very much a line out of an adventure novel that he might have read as a child, though Sanson knows he’s far from the dashing adventurer giving his life to save the innocent. But without Guydelot around—

“Who do you think you're trying to impress?”

Sanson doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing.

They fight the siren together. It’s difficult, tiring work, and several minutes into the fight, Sanson missteps, his footing slipping in the dewy grass of the island. He dodges the siren’s attack by ilms, the edges of his coat getting singed.

“Sanson!” Guydelot cries out, and the tune he plays changes suddenly.

The Army’s Paeon rings out across the battlefield, and Sanson is nearly too shocked for the song to take effect. He’s heard the song several times, when Pike has played it, but he’s never been near enough to hear Guydelot play it, and it’s as different as the water in the Shroud is from the waters of Vylbrand.

For a second, Sanson is standing outside the Quiver’s Hold, half-hidden behind the doorway, as he first hears the Army’s Paeon. As he first feels the embers of inspiration that will kindle the raging fire of passion within him. 

Sanson’s lance pierces straight through the siren’s heart, as Pike and Guydelot’s arrows bury into her skull. She explodes into shimmering aether, soon disappearing from their view, and the summoning stone is back to the way it was, before Sanson had touched it.

Sanson looks at Guydelot, the sun catching his hair in golden light.  _ Of course it was you _ , he thinks, awed. Of course the one who would accompany him on this journey, the one who would anger and drive him in equal measure, the one who would be there when Sanson needed him most—of course it would be the same person who had given Sanson his goal in the first place.

Sanson’s  _ definitely _ fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanson meets an old friend. Guydelot composes a song.

So here’s the problem:

Sanson’s aware he’s got  _ feelings  _ for Guydelot. And Guydelot has softened towards him. His barbs are a little less barbs and more teases that leave Sanson actually laughing more often than not. And, every once in a while, Guydelot will actually  _ agree  _ with him. Or say something  _ nice _ . Or  _ praise him _ .

Which means Sanson’s kind of dying. A lot.

They end up working closely together, drafting plans for integrating bards into combat units in Sanson’s office. Sanson does most of the work, really, because as much as Guydelot has softened, he’s still the same, and has no love for hard work. Guydelot really only takes an interest when Sanson directly engages him. He spends most of the time lounging around like a large house cat, idly strumming or humming.

“Guydelot,” Sanson says, frowning at a set of battle plans. “What do you think of this formation?”

Guydelot sighs, standing in a fluid motion to make his way over to where Sanson is sitting, at his desk. Sanson tries not to obviously stare at the way it sends the muscles of his arms (bared today, in the Shroud’s summer heat) rippling, and he mostly succeeds. Guydelot steps behind him, pressing his chest against Sanson’s back as he leans over to look at Sanson’s work, and Sanson hopes his flush at the contact doesn’t catch Guydelot’s notice.

“Hm,” Guydelot hums, next to Sanson’s ear. “Could use some adjustments, here and here.” He points to two spots. “See, there’s a chance the line could break, and expose the archers. Hand me your pen?”

Sanson passes him the fountain pen. Guydelot takes it, his long fingers wrapping around the shaft and sending Sanson’s mind to places not conducive for work. He leans further in, making a few marks on the paper. His other hand rests on Sanson’s shoulder for support. One of his fingers brushes against the nape of Sanson’s neck as he passes the pen back.

“Like this, there’s redundancies if the line breaks during the first large push,” Guydelot says.

Sanson nods. He can’t even see the paper. His mind is totally consumed with Guydelot pressed against him, on where his hands touch Sanson’s body, on how close his face is. If he liked, Sanson could turn and kiss him right now.

As if sensing his thoughts, Guydelot pulls away, his hand falling from Sanson’s shoulder. “It looks good otherwise, though. I’m sure Mourechaux will be pleased with it. Good job.”

Sanson’s in  _ hell _ .

“I don’t understand how you can see these things, and not apply that knowledge to actually helping me draft these things,” Sanson grumbles. 

“If I do too much, they’ll expect more of me,” Guydelot declares, retreating back to his position on the armchair. “Besides, I much prefer composing.”

“Working on something new?”

For once, Guydelot doesn’t immediately respond. “Yes,” he says finally. “Not a song for battle, just for...nevermind.”

“Can I hear it?” Sanson asks eagerly. There are few things Sanson enjoys more than hearing Guydelot play.

(Two things, actually. He likes Guydelot touching him more than listening to him play. And, in theory, he likes Guydelot kissing him more than anything in the world. But it doesn’t do to dwell on such things.)

Surprisingly, Guydelot  _ blushes _ , a look that Sanson decides is better than any view in the world, 10/10, would do anything to see again. “Not this one, Sanson the Stiff,” he says. “Not right now.”

Sanson’s brow furrows. “Why—”

“Don’t ask. It’s private.”

Sanson blinks at the sudden shutdown. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Guydelot sighs, looking away. “You didn’t know.”

A stiff silence hangs between them, and Sanson feels the need to escape. “I think I’m about done for the day,” he says, capping his pen. He pushes his chair back from the desk and stands, stretching. “I’m off to run some errands.”

Sanson starts to walk out of the room, and Guydelot catches his hand as he passes. “Sanson,” he says, staring up at him. “I—” he stops.

“Yes?”

Guydelot stares at their hands. “Nevermind. See you tomorrow.” He drops Sanson’s hand, and with no reason to stay, Sanson leaves.

He heads to the Ebony Stalls, the long walk from the Adders’ Nest giving him time to puzzle over Guydelot’s actions. Every once in a while, he’ll do something like this, clam up like he’s accidentally shared something he didn’t mean to. Except Sanson can never figure out what, exactly, he’s supposed to have shared, because the things Guydelot says never hold any meaning that he can puzzle out.

So caught up in his thoughts, Sanson walks straight into another person. “Oh, I’m so sorry—Al’dir?”

His former flame looks down at him, and grins. “Sanson!” he says jovially. He claps a hand on Sanson’s shoulder. “I was hoping I may run into you. How have you been?”

“Well, thank you,” Sanson says, smiling brightly. “How about yourself? Find the adventure you hoped for?”

“And then some,” Al’dir says. “Have you eaten? We could catch up over dinner. My treat, of course.”

“I would love to,” Sanson says.

Al’dir slings an arm around his shoulder and begins to walk with him towards the restaurants. “I was here a couple of months ago,” Al’dir says, as they walk. “And I went to the Adders’ Nest, to see if you were around, but they told me you were on a long mission.”

“Yes, I returned last month,” Sanson replies. “I can tell you all about it, actually, though it’s a long story.”

“I’ve got plenty of time,” Al’dir replies. “Do you want to go to the place we used to? It’s still around, right?”

“And thriving,” Sanson says. He points to the largest of the restaurants. “Marie expanded, just last year.”

“Good for her! You think she’ll still remember me?”

“You’re hard to forget—oh! Guydelot!” Sanson waves to his friend, catching his attention. “Excellent timing. Guydelot, this is Al’dir, an old friend of mine. Al’dir, this is Guydelot, he was one of my companions on the mission I was just on.”

Guydelot regards Al’dir for a moment, and Sanson swears he sees something in his eyes flash as they pass over Al’dir’s arm around his shoulders.

“Nice to meet you,” Al’dir says, holding out a hand. “I suppose I should thank you for keeping my Sanson safe, if he’s still as reckless as he used to be.”

Sanson flushes. “I’ll have you know, there’s no more charging right off into battle for me! In fact, Guydelot was the one tearing off across Coerthas.”

Guydelot doesn’t take Al’dir’s hand. “Sanson the Stiff? Reckless? I think you don’t know him that well. He’s got plans for his planning.”

“He was a real firecracker back in the day,” Al’dir says, letting his hand fall in good humor. “The amount of times I had to shoot down Garleans because he’d left his back open…”

“Well, with you at my back, it’s not as if I had to  _ worry _ ,” Sanson laughs.

Something dark crosses over Guydelot’s face, and he takes a step back. “Excuse me, I have errands to attend to,” he says, and stalks off.

Al’dir raises an eyebrow at Sanson. “He seems...lovely.”

“He’s not normally like that,” Sanson replies, furrowing his brow. “Something might be wrong with him...sorry, Al’dir, I think I’ll need to take a rain check on dinner. I’m worried about him.”

“No worries, I’ll be around for a few more days. Why don’t we meet tomorrow at Marie’s?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Sanson agrees, and he hugs Al’dir before he goes to chase after Guydelot.

He catches up with him just outside Quiver’s Hold. “Guydelot! Guydelot, would you stop for a second?” he yells, out of breath.

Guydelot stops, and turns on his heel. “What? Get tired of your  _ friend _ , and came to find the replacement?”

“What?” Sanson says, stopping. “No, I was worried about you. You’ve been in a mood all day.”

“I’ve been exactly the same as I always am,” Guydelot says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just because I was a little short with your friend doesn’t mean I’m in a  _ mood _ .”

“You were incredibly rude to him,” Sanson replies. “I know you can be a bit antisocial at times, but I thought you would be nice to my friends, at least, considering our own friendship.”

“I don’t know why you would bother with me,” Guydelot bites out. “Since you clearly don’t trust me.”

“What? What gave you  _ that _ impression?” Sanson steps back.

Guydelot throws up his hands. “You said that he was at your back, so you could be reckless. You’re never reckless around me, so clearly I am inferior to Al’dir’s might.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Guydelot.” Sanson shakes his head and steps closer to Guydelot. “That was when I was young and very stupid. I’m not reckless because I got injured very badly, and I learned better. It’s not an indictment on you. In fact,” and he feels his cheeks heat a bit at this, “There is no one I would rather have at my side in battle than you.”

“Really? You seemed quite chummy around Al’dir—”

“Al’dir was a good comrade in the war with Garlemald,” Sanson interrupts. “And he’s talented, but-but he’s not  _ you _ . You could wipe the floor with him with one hand tied behind your back.”

Guydelot snorts. “It would be hard to play  _ or _ fire a bow like that.”

“You’d find a way. You always do.” Sanson grins.

Guydelot grins hesitantly back. “I would. And then I’d write a song to make fun of his scales.”

“And it would be wonderfully hilarious, I’m sure,” Sanson replies.

They’re quiet for a moment, and Sanson realizes he’s incredibly close to Guydelot again. He glances up, and catches Guydelot’s eyes, and there’s a moment where Sanson is sure that Guydelot is going to kiss him.

It must be wishful thinking, because Guydelot steps back, letting Sanson’s hand fall off his shoulder. “I should let you get back to your friend,” he says. “I’ve got business with Jehantel, about the new bards.”

“Right, of course. Sorry to keep you.” Sanson tucks his hands behind his back. “See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there with bells on,” Guydelot promises. He gives Sanson a small wave as he heads into the Quiver’s Hold.

It strikes Sanson, then, that Guydelot was jealous over Al’dir. It makes him feel a little giddy, even if he was jealous over their battle bond and not their former relationship, and Sanson walks the whole way home with a stupid smile on his face.

* * *

Sanson has made a mistake. A terrible, horrible, no-coming-back-from-this mistake.

The mistake is agreeing to go to Buscarron’s Druthers with a few of his friends (which  _ yes _ , he does have, despite what Guydelot may have thought). Not a bad idea on its face, and any other day, it may not have had the disastrous consequences. 

But today, Guydelot and Pike are  _ also _ there. Pike catches his eye and bounds up to him, a grin on his lips. “Sanson! How are you? It’s been ages.”

“It’s been barely two weeks,” Sanson says with a smile of his own. “I’m well, thank you. You’re here with Guydelot?”

“Yeah!” Pike waves to Guydelot, who’s tuning his lyre. He pauses to wave back, his eyes lingering on Sanson, which nearly distracts Sanson from the conversation at hand.

“Are you playing, then?”

“Not me,” Pike replies, holding up a bandaged hand. “Valliant and I went a little rough with training, and she broke two of my fingers. She was more distraught than I was, it was hilarious—anyway, Seren healed it, but I won’t be playing for a few days at least. I’m just here to watch Guydelot, he invited me.”

“I see,” Sanson says. He feels oddly hurt that Guydelot didn’t invite him, but since they’ve spent a lot of time together recently, he may have just wished for a break from Sanson’s presence. He just wishes he would have said—

“Sanson?” Pike waves a hand in front of his face, and Sanson snaps to attention. “You alright?”

“Oh, leave him be,” Ombelle says, grinning into her ale. “He’s  _ mooning _ .”

“I am  _ not, _ ” Sanson protests, feeling his face heat. “I was just...distracted.”

“By which part of Guydelot? His cheekbones? His eyes?” Ombelle nudges him playfully.

“Why do I speak to you,” Sanson grumbles. “I was just wondering why he didn’t invite me, is all.”

“Aw,” Pike says, a soft smile taking over his features. “I didn’t realize you’d realized your feelings for him. Twelve, the sexual tension when we were travelling was  _ unbearable _ .”

“It’s worse now, I’d wager,” Ombelle says, and like that, she’s dead to Sanson.

“I’m sure.” And so is Pike.

Guydelot finishes his tuning, and lifts his lyre. The Druthers aren’t very busy at this time of day, and so with just a few cautious plucks, Guydelot has the attention of the entire tavern. Sanson leans back against the counter, and loses himself in the music.

It’s easy, as usual. The wraps over him like a familiar, warm blanket, soft and comforting. Guydelot starts with a slower piece, one that Sanson’s heard bits and pieces of as Guydelot composed while he worked. He’s taken a familiar folk tale, a warning to listen to your parents or something like that, and turned it into a haunting tune. It’s beautiful, of course.

The next song is a playful one, teasing those who spend too much time working and not enough time playing. Guydelot catches his eye and smirks as he slips into a verse that he’d written on their travels, and Sanson gives him a fond roll of the eyes. It warms his heart more than he feels irritated at being made fun of, a sign of just how far gone he is over Guydelot.

Guydelot plays a few more songs, classic folk songs and one that, judging by the way Pike looks like he may burst of pride, he was taught by Pike himself. Sanson sings along with the few he knows, and Ombelle rolls her eyes at him when he blushes during a particularly bawdy one. It’s not his fault; Guydelot had winked at him as he sang the dirtiest verse in the song, and his mind had gone down a  _ path _ .

Finally, Guydelot’s strumming slows down, and he stretches out his fingers. “One more song, for you fine folk,” he calls, to raucous applause. In between the third and fourth songs, his audience had grown to over double what it had been before, and Sanson had moved to find himself a better spot to easily watch Guydelot.

Guydelot makes eye contact with him for a moment, and he pauses in his strumming. There’s something in his eyes, trying to speak to Sanson, but whatever it is, Sanson can’t decipher it. He rests his chin on his hand and gives Guydelot an encouraging smile, trying not to look  _ too _ much like a lovelorn fool.

Guydelot nods, almost to himself, and begins to play. The chords are soft, quiet, and sweet, with just a hint of somber longing. It feels like a love song, and as Guydelot begins to sing, he realizes that it  _ is _ . And not one that Sanson’s heard before, which means Guydelot likely composed it himself.

He thinks back to when Guydelot mentioned composing a song, the one he wouldn’t let Sanson hear.  _ Oh _ , he thinks. It makes sense that he wouldn’t have wanted Sanson to hear this, before he finished it. There’s something so vulnerable in writing something like that, and Guydelot hates being vulnerable.

Sanson puzzles over the words, trying to figure out who Guydelot is singing over. For all the time they spend together, he doesn’t know who else Guydelot spends time with. Outside of Pike, he’s not sure Guydelot does spend time with anyone else. And Guydelot can’t be in love with Pike (he’d asked, once, and Guydelot had laughed so hard he cried), so  _ who? _

“And the red-breasted robin beats his wings, his throat it trembles when he sings, for he is helpless before you,” Guydelot sings, and he makes eye contact with Sanson again.

For a brief, wild second, Sanson thinks he’s singing about  _ him _ .

And then Guydelot tears his eyes away and smiles at a pretty young woman before him, and Sanson realizes that can’t be it. Guydelot, so free with his affections, the type who could seduce any he wished into his bed, would have said something before now. Sanson tries to be subtle, but even he knows that his regard for Guydelot must have shown clearly on his face. If he wanted, Guydelot could have had him any time. So clearly, he didn’t want Sanson.

The song ends, and Sanson heads back to the bar as Guydelot flirts with a few of his audience. “I have business to attend to,” he says to Ombelle and Pike. “Give my regards to Guydelot. It was a wonderful show.”

“Sanson,” Pike says. “You’re crying. Is everything alright?”

“You know how Guydelot’s music moves me! Excuse me.”

He rushes out of the Druthers without sparing a second glance to Guydelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an interlude chapter before we get to Stormblood bard quests! I hope Sanson didn't sound too mopey there, towards the end! One of the things I noticed as I was playing the bard quests is that both Guydelot and Sanson have this intense need to be recognized, and that can only come from some serious self-doubt, so I wanted to explore how that might come across in crushing on each other. 
> 
> The song Guydelot plays is called "Breathless," by Nate Cave, but I prefer the Cat Power version. Even with all the sappy lyrics, the way she sings it has that longing feeling to it that felt perfect for Guydelot. I _was_ going to do the song I named the fic after, but it's a little too modern to fit, and it feels a little more from Sanson to Guydelot than Guydelot to Sanson.

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely self-indulgent, honestly. I needed more Guydelot/Sanson content, and I knew the only bitch I could count on to provide it was myself. Takes place in my own canon, of course, because I love my OCs and need to put them everywhere, but I'll keep the Pike content fairly light. Don't know when there will be more of this; I'm using writing as an excuse to avoid family who came to visit, so it might be pretty soon, but no promises! As always, my posting schedule is whenever I feel like it lol.
> 
> Song is "Out of My Element" by Sure Sure! It has a really fun pining vibe that just hit hard when it came up on my writing playlist as I was writing this.


End file.
